The season of England's loveliest sunsets is here. The golden corn, ripe and ready for the sickle, bows gracefully beneath the lavender-perfumed breeze, and whispers to bountiful earth, "My time has come. Farewell!"
In a garden attached to a cottage situated twenty miles from Springfield stands Nelly Marston, by the side of an old apple-tree loaded with fair fruit, and looking, with the white moss gathered about its limbs, like an ancient knight clothed in silver armour. The cottage has many rooms of delightfully odd shapes, is tastefully furnished, and is built in the centre of an acre of land so prettily laid out and so bright with colour that few strangers see it without pausing a while to admire.
Nelly Marston is more beautiful than when we saw her last at Springfield, and to the poetical mind presents a fine contrast to the gnarled and ancient tree, which, could it speak, might honestly say, "Old I am, but am yet fair to the eye and can produce good things. Come, my girl, gather sweetness from me, and wisdom too, if you need it."
She gathers sweetness and that is enough for her. From where she stands, she has a broken view of the winding lane which, from distant wider spaces, leads to the front of the cottage. Often and again her eyes are directed towards this lane, with a look which denotes that her heart is in them. She is like fair Rosamond waiting for her prince. He comes! A horseman turns into the winding path and waves his hand to her. She replies with the gladdest of smiles and with a waving of her own pretty hand, and her heart beats joyfully to the music of the horse's hoof. Her prince draws rein at the cottage-door, and she is there to meet him. A lad with face deeply pock-marked takes the horse to the stable, casting as many admiring glances towards Nelly as time will permit of.
"Now, Nelly," says the prince gaily, as he throws his arms about her and kisses her again and again, "was ever lover more punctual than I?"
"How can I tell?" she answers, "I never had but one."
"Ah, Nelly, Nelly!" he exclaims, with uplifted finger and an arch smile; "do you forget the gardener's son?"
"No, I do not forget him; he was very good to me. But I do not mean in that way."
"In what way, then, puss?"
"You'll tease me till I tell you. I don't know how to say it."
"Say it you must, though, my queen."
"Of course I must. You have got what you call a strong will. Isn't that it?"
"That is it," he assents, with a nod which is both careless and determined.
"And are never to be turned from your purpose?"
"Never. That is the only way to get on in life, and I mean to get on."
"Nothing can prevent that. You are so clever that I am half inclined to be frightened of you. And I should be, if I were not sure you loved me."
He kisses her as he observes, "Put the strongest will into the crucible of love, and it melts like lead in a furnace. In such a test steel would become as pliant as running water. Love is the most intoxicating poison, my darling."
"I don't like the word," she says.
"The word 'darling'?" he inquires.
"No, the word 'poison.' Love is not a poison; it is an elixir." She winds her arms round his neck, and murmurs, "It has given me a new life. The world is more beautiful than it used to be I am sure."
He smiles at her sentiment. "I remember telling you once thatyouhad a strong will of your own, Nelly."
"I haven't that much," she says, placing the nail of her thumb to the tip of her little finger. "Not that much!"
"But you are a cunning puss, for all that," he says, as he draws her face to his. They are in the cottage now, and she is sitting on his knee. "You want to fly away from the subject we were speaking of, so my strong will must bring you back to it. Well, I'll be content with a compromise. Who is this lover that so limits your knowledge?"
"I shall not tell you that, sir. You must guess it--if you can! Asifyou could! No, I'll not say! I can keep a secret. Oh, you may laugh, but I can!"
"Well, then, where is he?"
"Where? Why, thousands of miles away of course!"
"Let me not catch him!" he cries gaily. "Well, now, pet, to spite that person, who I hope will not sufferverymuch in consequence, I intend to stop with you a whole fortnight."
Her face lights up with joy.
"I have important business in London," he continues, with a sly laugh; "oh, most important! My presence is imperatively required in the great city. The interests of an influential client depend personally upon me, so Lady Temple has given me leave of absence. Confiding old soul!"
"Lady Temple is the same as ever?"
"The same as ever. No change. Fretful and peevish, throwing out all sorts of dark innuendoes one minute, and smiling upon me the next. Now a lamb, now a tigress. I have the temper of an angel, Nell, or I could never stand it. But I humour her--for your sake, pet, as well as my own. Our future depends upon her.
"Does she speak of me?"
"She mentioned your name once last week, and not amiably. But enough of her. Goodbye, my worthy aunt, for a happy fortnight. If she guessed how matters stood, Nell, between me and you, I should be----well, best not think of that. The prospect is not a pleasant one. Now tell me how you have passed the time, how many new laid-eggs you get a day, and how the chickens are, whether the new little pig has any idea of its ultimate fate, how the fruit is getting on, and how you like the new boy I sent to look after the stable. You did not want him you wrote to me; but thereby hangs a tale, which you shall hear presently. Upon my word, Nell, I suspect he is in love with you, like everybody else who sees you. I have a kind of belief that you are a love-witch. He never took his eyes off you, all the time he was waiting for my nag. Now for the reason of his being here. Nelly, to-morrow morning, before you are up, there will arrive at this little cottage the prettiest basket-carriage and the prettiest pair of ponies in England. A present for you, pet, from your lover thousands of miles away. Ah, you kiss me for that, do you! Then I take it, you are pleased with this mysterious lover of yours!"
"I believe no woman in the world was ever half so happy as I. When you are with me, there is not a cloud on my life."
"That's a good hearing," he says, heartily. "Why, Nelly, you are a living wonder! A satisfied woman! I shall scarcely be surprised to hear you say you have not a wish ungratified."
"Not quite that. I have one wish."
"To wit," he prompts.
She whispers it to him.
"That the next fortnight would last for ever, so that you would never have to leave me!"
"A woman's wish all over," he says. "But the old man with the scythe will not be denied, my pet. While lovers dream, time flies the faster, I can't imagine you with white hair, Nell; yet you would look lovely anyway."
"Yourhair will be white, too, remember," she says, in a tone of tender jesting. "It will be strange to look back so many years, and think and talk of the past. But we shall be to each other then what we are now. Say that we shall."
"Say it! I swear it, my pet! Let Time do his worst, then. You shall not pluck another white hair out of my head. Nelly, I love you more and more every day of my life."
"And nothing shall ever part us!"
"Nothing, my darling!"
She is, indeed, supremely happy. The springtime of youth and love is hers, and no deeper heresy could have been whispered to her than the warning such a springtime resembles
"The uncertain glory of an April day,Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,And by-and-by a cloud takes all away."
"The uncertain glory of an April day,Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,And by-and-by a cloud takes all away."
The minutes fly all too quickly, and Love, with magic brush, paints the present and the time to come.
Fifteen months have passed. It is winter, and the snow is falling; weather-wise men say that it will continue to fall for days. Peaceful and solemn are the fields, with Nature's carpet of virgin snow covering and protecting the seedlings in the soil beneath. White and graceful devices beautify the woods, the traceries of which are so wonderfully delicate and exquisite that none but spirit fingers could have shaped them, and every little branch stands out bright and clear in the life-giving air.
The scene is the same as the last, but the pretty cottage shows signs of neglect. Our Nelly is there, and there is also a change in her. She is no longer the bright and winsome girl we looked upon a short time since. Her face is thin and haggard, and the expression on her features is one of despair and agony. In the clear light of the healthy winter's day she walks up and down, and round and round the little room where love once dwelt, and where she called up fair visions. Her fingers are tightly interlaced, her lips are white and trembling, her eyes dilate with fear and helpless bewilderment. She does not speak, and for an hour at least she walks about the room with tumultuous agony at her breast.
Watching her from without, with sympathising eyes, and with an air which denotes that he bears magnetically a share in her pain, is the stable-lad who was hired to look after the prettiest pair of ponies in the world, a present to her from her lover, who vowed that nothing should ever part them--from her lover, who had stolen "her soul with many vows of love, and ne'er a true one." And ne'er a true one! Ah, kind Heaven, can it be possible? Can such treachery exist in a world where goodness is? No, she will not believe it. She strives to shake the doubt from her, feebly she wrestles with it, but it clings to her with the tenacity of truth, and inflicts unspeakable torture upon her.
"If she'd only set down!" muttered the stable-boy. "If she'd only be still a bit! If she'd only drop off asleep!"
But her whole soul is quivering; as her flesh might under the influence of a keen, palpable torture. Pale as she is, a fire is burning within her which almost maddens her, and a thousand feverish pulses in her being are beating in cruel sympathy. Is love left in the world? Is faithfulness? Is manliness? No. The world is filled with shame, and dishonour, and treachery, and she stands there, their living, suffering symbol.
Why the stable-lad is near her no one but himself could explain, and he perhaps would have been puzzled to do so. He was dismissed from his service months ago, when the ponies and basket-carriage were sold; but he refused to leave. He lingers about the house, picks up his food anyhow, sleeps anywhere, and during the daylight hours is always ready to Nelly's call. She has sometimes, from the despair born of loneliness, made a companion of him. She has no other now.
He experiences a feeling of relief when, after more than an hour has passed, he observes a change in her movements. She throws on her hat hurriedly, and passes out of the house. The lad follows her at a distance. She does not know that she has forgotten her cloak, and she heeds not the snow. The fire burning within her warms her with a terrible, dangerous warmth. To all external impressions she seems to be absolutely dead. She walks for a mile into the village, and enters a stationer's shop, where the post-office is kept.
"Have you any letters for me?" she asks.
She is evidently known to the woman behind the counter, who replies with small courtesy, "There is nothing for you."
Nelly holds out her hand with eager imploring. She has not heard the answer.
"I told you there are no letters," says the woman.
"I beg your pardon," sighs Nelly, humbly; and looking round the shop, as though to find some other excuse for having entered, picks up a paper, pays for it, and retraces her steps home. Home! Alas!
The stable-lad follows her and is presently aware that somebody is followinghim. It is a man, and the lad turns and confronts him. The stranger takes no notice of the lad, and strives to pass.
"Where are you pushing to?" cries the lad, being himself the obstructive party.
"Out of my way, my lad," says the man, adding under his breath, "I must not lose her now."
"What are you following that lady for?" demands the lad.
The question is answered by another.
"You have something to do with her, then?"
"I should think I have."
"I want to know where she lives. I am a friend of hers."
"She wants 'em, I should say--badly."
This remark is made after a keen observance of the stranger's face. It is a well-looking, honest, ruddy face, and the examination appears to satisfy the lad.
"Wants what?" asks the stranger.
"Friends."
"I thought she had--rich ones."
"If she had," answers the lad, "and mind, I don't say she hadn't--if she had, she hasn't got 'em now."
"Ah," says the stranger, drawing a deep breath, "he has left her, then. Poor Nelly!"
The last two words, uttered with feeling, and in a low tone not intended to be heard, reach the lad's sharp ears, and dispose him still more favourably towards the stranger.
"Look here," he blurts out, "are you a gentleman?"
"Does that mean, am I rich?"
The lad looks dubious, not being quite sure.
"Am I a gentleman?" continues the stranger. "That's as it may be. Every true man is a gentleman; every gentleman is not a true man." The lad grins. Some understanding of the aphorism penetrates his uneducated mind. "Best ask me if I'm a true man, my lad."
"Well, then, are you?"
"I think so. So far as regards that lady, I am sure so."
"A true man, and a friend," says the lad. "That's just what she wants. No more gentlemen; she's had enough of them, I should say. I ain't a bit of use to her--was turned off when the ponies was sold, but couldn't go. Thought she might make use of me in some way, you see. She never give me a hard word--never. Not like him; he was as hard as nails--not to her; oh, no; he was always soft to her with his tongue, as far as I could see, and I kept my eyes open, and my ears too!"
By this time they have reached the cottage, and Nelly enters, without turning her head.
"There," says the lad, "that's where she lives, and if she ain't caught her death of cold, coming out without her shawl, I'll stand on my head for a week. ButIcan't do anything for her. She wants a man to stand by her, not a poor beggar like me."
The stranger looks kindly at the lad.
"My boy," he says, "if you have sisters, look sharp after them, and never let them play the game of lords and ladies. Now come with me, and tell me what I want to know."
It is a few hours later, and the snow is still falling. A candle is alight in the little room in which Nelly restlessly sits or walks. The paper she bought at the post-office lies unfolded on the table. Suddenly a moan escapes her lips; an inward pain has forced it from her. She grasps the table convulsively, and her fingers mechanically clutch the paper. The pain dies away, and she sits exhausted on her chair. Listlessly and without purpose she looks at the paper, seeing at first but a dim confusion of words; but presently something in the column she is gazing at presents itself to her mind in a coherent form. She passes her hands across her eyes, to clear the mist from them, bends eagerly down to the paper, and reads the words that have attracted her attention. Starting to her feet, with the paper in her hand, she is hurrying to the door, when it opens from without, and the stranger who had followed her home appears.
"John!" she cries, with her hand to her heart. "Ah, he has sent you, then! Thank God! He has sent you!"
"No one has sent me," says the gardener's son, who played his part in the Spring and Summer of our Prologue. "I am here of my own accord."
"What for?" she asks, shrinkingly, imploringly. It is remarkable in her that every word she speaks, every movement she makes, implies fear. She bears the appearance of a hunted animal, in dread of an unknown, unseen torture. "Why are you here?"
"I come to ask if I can serve you."
"You! You!"
"I--in truth and sincerity. I will not insult you by telling you that my feelings are unchanged--Good heavens! you are in pain!"
"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" Two or three minutes pass in silence. Then the lines about her lips relax, and she speaks again, with a strange mingling of timidity and recklessness. "Do you know anything?"
"Much. Enough. Believe me, I wish to know nothing from you."
"And you come to ask me if you can serve me? Meaning it, in truth and sincerity?"
"Meaning it, in truth and sincerity."
She gazes at him, striving to discover whether his face bears truthful witness to the evidence of his lips, and, failing, makes a despairing motion with her hands.
"God help me!" she cries. "I cannot see. I do not know. But I believe you. I must, or I shall go mad. If you do not mean me to take you simply at your word, leave me at once without a sign."
"I will stop and serve you."
Her lips quiver at this exhibition of fidelity. Silently she hands him the paper, and points to the passage which appears to have aroused her to life. His eyes glitter as he reads the paragraph, which announces that on this evening Mr. Temple will take the chair at a lecture on "Man's Duty," to be delivered at a certain institution in a small town twenty miles away.
"I must go to that place," she says.
"To-night?"
"To-night. I must see him. I must speak to him to-night."
"You are not well; you are not fit to travel. To-morrow----"
"To-morrow I may not be able to travel. To-morrow will be too late. What I have said, I must do. You don't know what hangs upon it." Her lips contract with pain again. "If you leave me alone, and I do not see him to-night, I--I----"
Her eyes wander as her tongue refuses to shape the thought which holds her enthralled with fear and horror.
"A word first," says the gardener's son. "How long is it since you have seen him?"
"Three months."
"You have written to him?"
"Yes--yes. Ask me nothing more, for God's sake!"
"The place is twenty miles away. It is now six o'clock. In four hours the lecture will be over. It is snowing hard."
She comes close to his side; she looks straight into his eyes.
"John, your mother is dead."
"Yes."
"I heard of her at Springfield"--she shudders at the name--"and of your devotion to her. You loved her."
"I loved her."
"You stood at her deathbed."
"I held her in my arms when she died."
"Did she speak to you then?"
"A few words."
"They are sacred to you."
"Ay."
She pauses but for a moment; he looks at her wonderingly.
"John, you lovedme!& quot; He clenches his hands, and digs his nails into his palms. "This that I am about to say will live in your mind till the last hour of your life, with the last words your mother spoke to you. If you do not take me at once to the place I wish to go to, I will not live till midnight!"
He sees the deadly resolution in her white face, and he determines to obey her.
"Remain here till I return," he says. "I will not be gone a quarter of an hour. Wrap yourself up well, for the wind is enough to freeze one. Put on a thick veil to keep the snow from your face. I will do as you wish."
"Ah, you are good! You are good!" she sighs, and for the first time during the day, for the first time for many days, the tears gush forth. "God reward you--and pity me!"
He goes, and returns within the time he named. A light American buggy is at the door, and the stable-lad is at the horse's head. Nelly is so weak that the young gardener has to support her as she walks from the house; he lifts her with ease in his strong arms into the conveyance--marvelling at her lightness, and loving and pitying her the more because of it--and mounts by her side. The stable-lad looks on wistfully.
"There is no room for you, my lad," says the gardener's son. "Stop here till we return. He can sleep in the house?" He asks this question of Nelly.
"Oh, yes," she answers, listlessly.
The next moment they are off.
The boy runs after them, keeps them in sight for a little while, but is compelled at length to stop for rest.
"Never mind," he mutters, when he has recovered his breath. "I know where they've gone to. I'll follow them the best way I can." And off he starts, at a more reasonable pace for a human being.
The snow comes down faster and faster, and the gardener's son, with his head bent to his breast, plies whip and rein. Their road lies through many winding lanes, lined and dotted with hedges and cottages. Not a soul is out but themselves, and the home-light gleams from the cottage windows. Echoes of voices are heard from within some laughing, some singing, some quarrelling. The gardener's son notices all the signs as they rattle past; Nelly is indifferent to them. They stop at a wayside inn, to give the horse breathing time. The gardener's son urges Nelly to take some refreshment; she refuses, with sad and fretful impatience, and begrudges the horse its needful rest. They start again, he striving to keep up her spirits with tender and cheerful words.
"Another milepost," he says, shaking up the reins, and in a few minutes proclaims blithely, "and another milepost! That's quick work, that last mile. What's the matter with the nag?" he cries, as the beast shies in sudden fright, "It's not a milepost. It's a woman."
The woman, who has been crouching by the roadside, rises, and walks silently into the gloom. They can see that she is in rags--a sad, poverty-stricken mortal, too numbed with cold and misery to make an appeal for charity. This thought is expressed by the young gardener, who concludes his remarks with, "Poor creature!" Nelly shudders at the words and the pitying tone in which they are uttered. White are the roads they traverse, leaving a clear-cut black gash behind them, into which the soft snow falls gently, as though to heal the wounds inflicted. White is the night, but Nelly's face bids fair to rival it. A sigh escapes her bosom, and she sinks back, insensible.
The gardener's son calls to her in alarm, but she does not reply. He sees a light in a cottage window a short distance off, and he draws up at the door. Yet even as he lifts Nelly down with gentle care, she recovers, and asks him with a frightened air why he has stopped.
"You fainted," he explains.
"I am well now," she cries, with feverish eagerness. "Go on--go on!"
He answers, with a determination, that he will not proceed until she has taken something to sustain her strength--a cup of tea, a little brandy, anything--and she is compelled to yield. He knocks at the cottage door. A labourer opens it. The young gardener explains the nature of his errand, and produces money.
"You are in luck's way," says the labourer. "The missus has just made herself a cup of tea."
His wife turns her head, with a reproachful look, towards the door, the opening of which has brought a blast of cold air into the room. She is kneeling by a cradle at the fireside, and with common, homely words of love is singing her baby to sleep. Nelly catches her breath as the song and its meaning fall upon her ears and understanding, and in an agony of agitation she begs the young gardener to take her away. The tears stream down her cheeks, and her face is convulsed as she thus implores him. The soft sweet song of the mother has cut into her heart with the sharp keenness of cruelly-edged steel.
"Let me go," she cries wildly, "let me go! O my heart, my heart!"
The labourer's wife comes hurriedly forward, still with the mother's love-light in her eyes. But instead of speaking soothing words to the girl, she exclaims,
"Lord save us! What brings you out on such a night as this, and where do you belong to? You ought to be ashamed of yourself"--(this to the young gardener)--"carrying the poor child about in such a condition!"
"Ay, ay, dame," replies the young gardener, gently, with an observant glance at Nelly, a glance which brings a troubled look into his own face; "itisa bitter night----"
Nelly stops his further speech, and putting her arm about the woman's neck, whispers to her. The young gardener turns his back upon the women, and the labourer sits on a chair, with his eyes to the ground. For a minute or so the men do not stir from the positions they have assumed; then, as though moved by a common thought, they step softly from the cottage, and stand in silence outside for many minutes, until the wife comes to the door, and beckons them in. Nelly is on her knees by the cradle.
"Get along as quick as you can," whispers the labourer's wife to the young gardener; "there's little time to lose."
There are tears on her face, and on Nelly's also, as she rises from her knees.
"God bless you, my dear!" says the woman to the unhappy girl; and when Nelly and her protector have departed, she turns to her husband, and kisses his weather-worn face, with a grateful feeling in her breast, to which she could not have given expression in speech. But words are not needed at this moment.
In the meanwhile the travellers are speeding onwards.
"Only four miles to go now," says the young gardener, cheerfully; "keep up your strength."
Nelly nods, and hides her face from her companion. It might makehisheart faint to see the suffering depicted there.
It is difficult travelling, for the snow lies nearly a foot thick on the road, but John works with such good will, and the horse is so willing a creature, that they make fair progress. On they go, through wide and narrow spaces, clothed in purest white, and John now begins to wonder how this night's work will end. The reflection disturbs him, and he shakes the reins briskly, as though, by doing so, he can shake off distressing thoughts. Another mile is done, and another, and another. The young gardener's tongue keeps wagging all the way.
"I see the lights in the town," he says, in a tone of satisfaction, pointing with his whip.
The words have no sooner passed his lips than the horse twists its hoof in a hole hidden by the snow, and falls to the ground. John jumps out hastily, and lifts Nelly from the conveyance. The willing animal, in obedience to the gardener's urging, strives to rise, and partially succeeds, but slips down immediately with a groan.
"The horse is lamed," says John; "what shall we do now?"
He looks around for assistance. Not a house nor a human being is near them, and the town is nearly a mile distant. The lights which they could see from their elevation in the conveyance are no longer visible to them. Nelly's hands are tightly clasped as she looks imploringly into the face of her companion. "Can you walk?" asks John.
The reply comes from lips contracted with pain. "I must."
"I will carry you. I can!"
She shrinks from him, and moans that he must not touch her, and that she will try to walk. Slowly they plod along through the heavy snow, he encouraging her by every means in his power. Half an hour passes, and a church clock strikes ten. The church is quite close to them--a pretty, old-time place of worship, with many gables and an ancient porch; and a quaint churchyard adjoining, where hearts are at rest, and where human passions no longer bring woe and suffering.
Nelly clings to the gate of the church.
"John," she whispers.
"Yes," he answers, bending down to her.
"You have been a good friend to me. Will you continue to do what I wish?"
She speaks very slowly, with a pause between each word. She feels that consciousness is departing from her, that her strength has utterly left her, that she cannot walk another dozen yards. But she has something to say, and by a supreme effort of will--only to be summoned in such a bitter crisis as this in her young life--she retains her senses until it is said.
"I will do as you wish," says John, supporting her fainting form, and knowing instinctively, as he places his arms about her, that it is almost death to her thatheshall touch her.
"I cannot walk another step. My strength is gone."
"What must I do?"
"Take me to that porch. Lay me there--and leave me."
"Leave you!"
"If you raise me in your arms, I shall die! If you attempt to carry me into the town, I shall die! If you do not obey me, I shall die, and think of you as my enemy!"
He listens in awe. He has never heard language like this--he has never heard a voice like this.
"Lay me in that porch. Then seek a woman with a kind heart, and send her to me. Then--then----"
She struggles with nature. With the strength of a death's agony she fights for another minute of consciousness.
"And then?" he prompts, with his ear close to her lips, for the snow falls scarcely less lightly than the word; she breathes forth.
"Then," she whispers, "seekhim, and bring him to my side."
She has finished, and sinks into his arms, where she lies insensible and motionless, with her white face turned upwards to the sky, and the soft snow floating down upon it.
Implicitly he obeys her. Swiftly, and with the gentleness of a good woman, he bears her to the porch, and stripping off his outer coat, wraps her in it, and lays her within the holy hood of the house of prayer. Once or twice he speaks to her, but receives no answer; and once, with a sudden fear upon him, he places his ear to her heart, and hears with thankfulness its faint beating. He wipes the snow from her face, and, his task being thus far accomplished, he leaves her to seek for help.
The churchyard, with its silent dead, is not outwardly more still than is the form of this hapless girl; and but for the mystery within her, hidden mercifully from the knowledge of men, she might have been as dead as any buried in that ancient place. The soft snow falls and falls, and vagrant flakes float into the porch, and rest lightly upon her, like white-winged heralds of love and pity. In the churchyard are tombs of many designs--some lying low in humility, some rearing their heads with an arrogance befitting, mayhap, the clay they cover when it was animated with life. Lies there beneath these records the dust of any woman's heart, which, when it beat, suffered as Nelly suffers now? Lie there, in this solemn place, the ashes of any who was wronged as she is wronged, deserted as she is deserted, wrecked as she is wrecked? If such there be, mayhap the spirits of the dead look down pityingly upon this suffering child, and hover about her in sympathy and love.
Where, when haply she is once more conscious of the terror of her position, shall she look for succour, for practical pity and love? If man deserts her, can the angels help her?
Comes the answer so soon? A gentleman approaches the church with blithe steps. His face is flushed with pleasure, his eyes are bright, his heart beats high. He has had a triumph to-night. A thousand persons have listened to his praises, and have indorsed them--proud to see him, proud to know him, proud to have him among them, proud to add their tribute to his worth and goodness. He is elate and joyful. The moon, emerging from a cloud, shines upon his face. It is Mr. Temple.
The light shines also upon the white tombs of the dead, and upon Nelly's face.
He is not aware of her presence until he is close upon her, and then he only sees a woman's form lying within the porch.
Animated by an impulse of humanity, he hastens to her; he bends over her; his hand touches her cheek as he puts aside a curl of brown hair which the light breeze has blown across her face.
"Good God!" he cries. "It is Nelly!"
Is it pity, or fear, or annoyance, that is expressed in him? No man, seeking to know, could answer the question at this moment, for a cloud Obscures the moon, and throws darkness on his face.
He hears voices in the near distance. The speakers are almost upon him. He starts from his stooping posture with a look of alarm, and retreats to a safe shelter, where he can see and not be seen.
The voices proceed from two women and two men. One of the men is the young gardener; the other is a doctor, whom John has brought to the assistance of the girl he loves.
The doctor kneels by the side of the insensible girl, and raises her in his arms.
"She lives," he says, almost immediately.
"Thank God!" exclaims John.
Stronger evidence of life is given by Nelly herself. She moans and writhes in the doctor's arms.
The young gardener has two warm rugs with him. The doctor looks at him inquiringly.
"You are her husband?"
"No."
The doctor frowns.
"You had best retire, then. Place those wraps here. Stay--you must do something. Go to my house as quickly as you can, and bring---- No, there might be some difficulty. I will write what I want."
With Nelly's head still lying on his knee, he takes from his pocket a book, writes instructions upon a leaf, tears it out and gives it to the gardener.
"Do not delay," he says. "You and my man must bring the couch and the blankets at once. There's not a moment to lose."
John darts away, and the doctor beckons the women to him, and whispers gravely to them.
Mr. Temple, in his retreat, clasps his hands, and listens. For what? He cannot hear a word that passes between the women and the doctor, and their forms shut Nelly from his sight. But presently a sound reaches his ears that makes him tremble. It is a baby's cry. Another soul is added to the world's many. In the stillness of the beautiful night, while the snow is falling upon the ancient church and on the tombs of the dead who worshipped there, a child is born, and the mother's sharpest physical agony is over.
As in a theatre, after the overture is played, the first thing shown to the audience is the scene in which the action of the drama commences, so let our first words be devoted to the locality in which the story opens.
I doubt whether the pretty shrub from which Rosemary Lane derived its name was ever seen in the locality, or whether, being seen, it would have been recognised as a familiar sign. Rosemary has a peculiarly sweet odour; Rosemary Lane had not. In one sense there was fitness in the name; for as the flower of rosemary has frequently been used as an emblem of constancy and fidelity, so in Rosemary Lane, poor and humble as it was, might be found living proofs of the existence of those qualities.
It was in this locality that our heroine was reared.
Where she came from, whether she had a relative in the world, and what was her real name, were sealed mysteries to the inhabitants of Rosemary Lane.
As to where she came from, the hazard of a kind gossip, who said that the child dropped as it might be from heaven among them, was accepted, in lieu of a hazard more reasonable.
She must have had at some time, a mother, but whether that mother was alive or dead, was not known, and there were no means of ascertaining. Her father, we will, for the present, leave out of the question--as fathers are frequently willing, and occasionally grateful, to be left.
As to her real name, it mattered little. One was found for her in Rosemary Lane.
What little else was known concerning her shall be briefly told.
In the year 1848, Europe was convulsed with civil war. Firebrands were abundant, but not more abundant than the hands ready to use them. Red was the favourite colour, and blood and fire supplied it freely. The gutters ran with the stream of the one, and the heavens reflected the glare of the other.
It was a time of solemn awful tragedies. And because the gutters were not purified when the blood was cleared away, men despaired who had grasped at shadows. And because the heavens were bright and fair when the dreadful glare had died out of them, milder theorists still hoped that the day would come when their dreams should be realised.
There was to be a monster meeting at Bonner's Fields, and the inhabitants of Rosemary Lane and the surrounding neighbourhood flocked to the spot made historically famous by the bishop who played his ruthless part in the reign of bloody Mary.
Troops were massed to meet the mob, but happily there was little need for them. Copious and beneficent showers of rain spoilt the bad promise of the day. Back to their homes went the idlers; for, indeed, there was little of serious purpose in ninety-nine out of every hundred who assembled; and the arm of the law came down lightly, comparatively few persons being arrested.
In the evening Rosemary Lane was exceedingly animated. There was more light in the Royal George than in all the private houses within a radius of five hundred yards. This particular gin palace was a grand stone building, abounding in bright glass and gilt cornices, and it was situated within a short distance of the residence of Mr. Richard Chester, who for a sufficient reason, was not at the present moment one of the throng there assembled. He was at home, beating his wife, who happened to be possessed of fifteen pence.
He employed all his arts to wheedle the money out of his wife; but she was firm and would not be wheedled. He even rehearsed a speech on liberty, which he was burning to deliver at the Royal George. It had no more effect upon her than if she had been a dummy woman. Mr. Chester took a strap into his hand and drew it between his palms. Mrs. Chester held her breath, and bit her lips.
"I must have it, old woman," he said, in a musing tone. "Liberty soars upon heavenly wings, and cries for----"
"Gin!" interrupted Mrs. Chester, with scornful emphasis.
He flourished his strap, and brought it down upon her shoulders. The stroke was neither savage nor vindictive, and seemed to be administered more in sorrow than in anger. Yet she cried,
"O Dick!"
"Come," he said, persuasively, "the money."
"You may beat me black and blue," she replied "but you'll get no money out of me to-night."
"Won't I!" exclaimed the tipsy humourist, as he flourished his strap, and brought it down again. "Take that, and that, and that!"
His wife took that, and that, and that, meekly, so far as her outward manner denoted. She was really not hurt much, for his blows were light; but the tears gathered in her eyes, as she asked:
"Do you know why, if you killed me I would not give you the money?"
"Because you're an obstinate woman," he replied, with hand upraised.
"Because I want it for medicine, for Sally."
At this point the door of the room opened, and two persons appeared--a man, certainly wide awake and a very little girl, certainly almost fast asleep, holding on to the skirts of his coat. No sooner did the man pause on the right side of the door, than the child converted "almost" into "quite." With a bit of his coat tightly clasped in her little hand, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, using his leg as a resting place for her head. The one candle which lighted the room showed dimly the form of the man but the child, being exceedingly small, was hidden from the Chesters in the shadows which lay upon the floor.
The intruder, at a glance, recognised the position of affairs.
"Don't mind me," he said with a coarse laugh, "this is a free country."
"What do you want here?" demanded Mr. Chester angrily.
"You've got a bedroom to let; I made out the bill in the window----"
"All right, just you wait a bit." He turned to his wife.
"What's the matter with Sally?"
"She's took ill again. She fainted dead away again this afternoon, all of a sudden, and Dr. Lyons says she must have strengthening things."
Utterly forgetting her declaration that if her husband killed her she would not give him the money, Mrs. Chester dragged the fifteen pence out of her pocket, and flinging it upon the table, cried passionately:
"Take it! and drink the child's life away!"
"Not quite so bad as that, old woman," he said, in a shame-faced tone, "I've enough to reproach myself with one. Is Sal asleep?"
His question was answered by the pattering of two little bare feet, and Sally herself appeared from an inner room, which, with the parlour in which this scene was taking place, formed the domestic establishment of the Chester family.
"No, father, I'm not asleep," cried Sally, as she ran.
Sally was only five years of age, and was such a mite of a child that she might have been no age at all. Waking suddenly, she had scrambled out of bed on hearing her father's voice.
"You parcel of bones!" exclaimed Mr. Chester, with rough tenderness, lifting the child in his arms. "What have you been up to again?"
"I fainted dead away, father!" replied Sally, gleefully; "dead away!"
The proud tone in which, in her thin shrill voice, she made this evidently familiar statement respecting herself was very remarkable.
"Why, Sally, you're always at it!"
"Yes, father," said Sally, with a triumphant laugh.
"But," said Mr. Chester, "if you go on fainting away like this, Sally, one of these days you'll faint so dead away that you'll never come to again."
This conveyed no terrors to Sally's mind, for she clapped her bony hands in delight at the idea. She stopped in the midst of her clapping, and struggling out of her father's arms, ran to the sleeping child, and gazed earnestly at the pretty face. Following Sally's movements, Mr. and Mrs. Chester saw for the first time that the man who had intruded upon them was not alone.
The two children presented a notable contrast. Sally had not a spare ounce of flesh upon her body; the newcomer was plump, and her limbs were well proportioned. Sally was dark and sallow; the newcomer was fair, and despite her weariness, there were roses in her cheeks. Sally's hair was black, and hung straight in lank disorder about her forehead; the newcomer's hair was flaxen, and hung about her forehead in naturally-graceful curls. She was like one of Raphael's angels, fresh from heaven; Sally was like an elf from dark woods.
Sally gazed upon the sleeping girl in solemn wonder and admiration, and presently put forward one of her fingers and touched the rosy cheek--drawing it quickly back, as though it were a presumptuous thing to do. Again she stretched forth her hand, and played with the flaxen curls. Then, emboldened by success, Sally wetted her forefinger on her tongue, and rubbed it softly up and down over the roses in the sleeping child's face. That, when she looked at her finger after this operation, there was no red upon it, was evidently a puzzle to Sally. Her next proceeding was to take the sleeping child's plump hand in her bony one, and make an examination of the fat little fingers, separating them one by one, and curiously comparing them with her own. While thus employed Sally happened to glance up at the man, and, meeting his eyes, her arm stole round the sleeping child's neck. The next moment Sally was sitting on the floor, nursing the new little girl on her lap.
Sally had had her dreams, as all children have--bright dreams of flowers, and gardens, and light, and colour, and beautiful shapes--of dolls with pink faces and spangled silk dresses--but never, in her wildest fancies, had she compassed the possession of such a lovely doll as this she now nursed in her lap. She had never seen anything so sweetly exquisite, and she sat in her thin night-dress, poor wan little elf, rocking her new treasure, and fondling it in purest delight.
Mrs. Chester gazed at the children, and her tender heart began to bleed. That this strange child should be so beautiful, and rosy, and plump, and her child so forlorn-looking, and pale, and thin, smote her with keenest pain.
"Get up from the cold floor, Sally!" she cried; "you'll catch your death setting there with nothing on!"
Sally staggered to her feet, with the little stranger in her arms.
"Mercy take the child!" cried Mrs. Chester, still more crossly. "You'll let her fall! Here, give her to me!"
But Sally, heavy as her burden was, held her precious possession close to her, and managed to reach the bedroom door, where she stood still awhile.
Mr. Chester brought affairs to some sort of a climax. He looked at the silver shilling and the few coppers upon the table, and his hand stole slowly towards them; but happening to look over his shoulder at Sally, he swiftly withdrew his hand, and left the money undisturbed. Then he turned abruptly to the stranger.
"Now, then," said he, "what'syourname when you are at home?"
"When I'm at home I'll tell you," replied the stranger. "Let's come to business. You've got a bedroom to let. What's the rent of it?"
"Three shillings a week. Respectable references, of course?" inquired Mr. Chester, vaguely.
"Stuff!" exclaimed the stranger, taking some silver pieces from his pocket. "Here's my reference."
"Not a bad one," said Mr. Chester, "but I shall require two weeks in advance."
"Here you are," said the stranger, counting out six shillings into Mr. Chester's hand. "And that's settled."
"Not so fast; you're a stranger to us, and a man's got to be careful what kind of people he takes into his house. You see, you're not alone. You bring a little girl with you, and we've got one of our own already. Now we don't wish to be left with another on our hands that don't rightly belong to us. Children are no rarity round about in these parts."
Sally, by this time, had found her burden too heavy for her, and the baby-child, with her golden curls and perfectly beautiful features, was now lying on the ground, and Sally was bending over her.
Mrs. Chester, who had thrown a thin shawl over Sally, listened to the conversation with interest. She was glad to let her room, but she could not make up her mind as to the character of her new tenant. He was a tall spare man, with thin yellow whiskers and light-grey eyes. His hands were somewhat delicately shaped, and his nails were in good condition, denoting that he was not a common workman, nor one who gained a livelihood by manual labour. His clothes were shabby, and an air of shabby refinement pervaded him. Mrs. Chester was puzzled what to think of him.
"You don't want to be left with her on your hands?" exclaimed the stranger boisterously. "Not a likely thing that. Why, every hair of the darling's head is as precious to me as--as----" Not being able to find an appropriate simile, he gave it up, and continued--"Look there. Your little girl seems to have taken a fancy to--to--my little girl. They'll be company for each other. I warrant, if I tried to take her upstairs to bed now, Sally would begin to cry."
He was wrong. Sally did not cry as the stranger approached her, but standing, with flashing eyes before her treasure, she struck at him viciously with her little fists.
"Didn't I tell you?" inquired the stranger of Mr. Chester, without ill-humour. "Sally's a game little bird. What do you say to letting the children sleep together, just for this night? To-morrow we'll make things straight and comfortable."
"All right," replied Mr. Chester, anxious to be off. "The old woman'll see to that. You come along with me now, and have a glass at the Royal George. Goodnight, Sally. Give us a kiss."
He stooped to Sally's face, and kissed her. With her arms round his neck, she pulled him to his knees, and made him kiss the sleeping child on the ground. Then, when he raised his face, she kissed him again, and with her mouth close to his, inhaled his breath, and exclaimed:
"Oh, shouldn't I like some to drink! I can only smell it now."
"Like some what, Sally?" asked the stranger, as in a shame-faced way, Mr. Chester turned from his child. "Some gin," answered Sally, with a smack of her lips.
Mr. Chester rose to his feet, with a rueful look.
"Give me a kiss, too, Sally," said the stranger; "I'm fond of game little girls."
But Sally was not to be won over, and when the stranger tried to force the kiss from her, she dug her fingers into his sandy whiskers with such spiteful intention that he was glad to free himself from her clutches.
"There, get out!" cried Mrs. Chester. "Can't you see the child don't want to have anything to do with you? You'll find your bed ready when you come home, which I expect won't be till you're turned out of the Royal George. Dick'll show you your room."
She caught up the sleeping child, and taking the candle, retired to the inner room, driving Sally before her.